Been lurking for a couple weeks now, and finally got a solid idea to write. First TF2 fanfic, hopefully I'm not doin' it wrong. In the beginning, this was just supposed to be some Heavy/Medic hurt/comfort bittersweetness, and then the dang thing went and grew on me, giving me ideas for other teammates as well. Oh dear.... Hope y'all enjoy! ~~~ Nightmares Every strong man has a weakness. It is one thing every member of the team had been taught, at some point in their lives. Along with that knowledge came the fact that the deeper the crack, the softer the underbelly, the more the man will hide it. The peak of psychological warfare is to find your enemy’s weaknesses and ruthlessly exploit them. But the key to working as a team is to acknowledge the weaknesses of the others around you, and work out a way to deal. Nobody on the RED team lived perfect lives before signing on. Everyone had something, a soft core of something painful, hidden deep inside of them. They dealt very differently, but they dealt, and the team adapted. Their new Scout was the youngest of eight children. Four of his brothers had been drafted to fight in Vietnam. Any time they were in a town with a radio or a television, Scout was in front of it; his usual boastful machismo gone, his face strained with worry. Nobody knew all of Sniper’s secrets, but the late-night phone arguments with his parents were impossible to ignore. The one time Demoman had brought it up, nobody saw anything of Sniper except his laser sight for the next three days. There were even mornings when Spy would show up to breakfast looking like death warmed over; unshowered, unshaven, with nervous, haunted eyes. On those mornings, he was more likely to shoot at Medic from the first “guten morgen†than he was to put cream in his coffee. Medic had learned to recognize the signs and make himself scarce. Spy never talked about it, but from his reaction to the German, everyone knew his demons came from the war. Nobody on the team was immune to their memories. Everyone broke down at some point. Some preferred to keep their fears locked up and away. Others, like Scout, would talk if pressed. And in fact, Engineer had made a habit of going into town with Scout, so that if the boy did overhear something on the radio, he would have a teammate to lean on if he needed it. Scout always brushed this aside with a dismissive snort and a shrug of his shoulders, but there were a few times the two had returned from town with Engineer’s hand on Scout’s shoulder, the boy’s face pale. Of anyone, Heavy and Medic, always together on and off the battlefield, appeared the least affected by their previous lives before RED. Some of the other teammates whispered that Medic’s detached attitude towards the last few decades could simply be an act to get under Spy’s skin. Some thought that the German whom they’d all good-naturedly ribbed for being a Nazi…maybe had been, and was laying low under this assumed, nameless identity. And as for Heavy, it always seemed that nothing could faze the big Russian. That wasn’t what Medic saw, although admittedly his role in the Russian’s life gave him unique insight. It didn’t happen often, but Heavy was no more detached from his past than anyone else. Three times now in the time they’d shared a bed, Medic had dealt with Heavy’s dreams of the gulag where he and his family had been sentenced to work themselves to death. He’d once been awakened by Heavy’s strong arms nearly crushing the air from his body as he spoke in halting Russian that Medic had no hope of understanding. He’d felt a few hot tears against his shoulder, but had said nothing, understanding well the need for release. Later, after Medic calmed him down, Heavy confessed that the nightmare had started with a memory burned into his brain; watching his father held between two police officers as a third put a rifle to the back of his head and fired. As for Medic himself, if his teammates ever found out how close to the truth they were, the German wasn’t sure what he’d do to survive it. He’d been ashamed before at how often his nightmares woke him, as opposed to his lover’s. Heavy, at first, knew better than to ask and would simply wrap his Doktor in a warm embrace and say nothing as Medic fought himself for control. If the older man gave in, sobbing hoarsely against Heavy’s broad chest, he would soothe him without pressing. The Russian had always trusted that his strong, willful lover would speak when he was ready. But as the months wore on and Medic still wouldn’t put a name to his night terrors, Heavy began to gently push. At first the German resisted, accepting the physical comfort and reassurance that his lover offered but brushing off the leading questions he asked. Heavy was nothing if not determined. Very, very slowly, he began to crack through Medic’s walls and learn the truth. Medic was never a Nazi. He’d never been a member of the Party, but neither had he been part of the resistance to it. Like so many others of his nation, he’d been relieved to see Germany begin to resurface from the wreck of the First World War He was lucky enough to escape recruitment into the Hitler Youth by virtue of his dark hair and middle class parentage. Instead of becoming a soldier for the Third Reich, Medic became a scientist, the brightest in his class. He’d thought nothing of it when the government had offered him a post at a work camp, Dachau, in 1939. He was fresh out of university and it was an irresistible offer; the money was good and after a year he would be granted an honorary medical degree. He was told that as part of a new program, political prisoners were being given a chance to redeem themselves by participating in voluntary medical studies. That illusion had been short-lived. However, once you were working for a fascist government, you couldn’t just stop. If anything, the procedures he was inflicting on prisoners strapped to examination tables made him even more determined to keep his head down and simply do his job. He “accidentally†killed a few patients whenever he thought he could get away with it, and he’d dared to hope that they were grateful for the release. They haunted his dreams now. He’d committed atrocities, he knew this, and his heart felt the weight of them. He tried to tell himself that he was not a bad man, a sentiment that Heavy would echo to him in the dark as he held the gasping, guilt-wracked German in his arms. But intentions notwithstanding, Medic knew what he had done, and knew that eventually, his soul would have to pay the price. He dreamed sometimes that the Respawn system failed, sending him to his death, and his soul to damnation. He dreamed of hell, imagined tortures and punishments waiting for him… Now, despite the risks, knowing each other’s weaknesses only makes them that much closer. Medic warms the Russian when he wakes from dreams of long nights spent freezing half to death in Siberia with no heat. Heavy does his best to convince his Doktor that he is no monster, that knowing his secrets does not make Heavy wary of him, or cause his love to waver. More than once, he has told the older man that if Respawn ever does fail, he will be right behind him, following him to Hell if he must, so that Medic will not have to suffer alone. It’s a dark promise, but for now it’s not one that either man has to think about. It’s their method of coping, and everyone has their own. Scout has his constant news updates, Soldier his constant drilling, and Demoman his constant drinking. Pyro loses himself in the warmth of flame, while Engineer prefers getting lost in blueprints and prototypes… The entire team deals, the entire team adapts. And even though the nights can sometimes be bitter, the mornings bring their friendships to light again, and help keep the nightmares at bay.
Welcome to the pack, hippie! I like what you've got started here, but I hope to see the concept more fleshed out. I was hoping to read about the dreams in media res. This is good, though. I hope you are planning on continuing this concept. If not, then I hope to read more from you soon.
That was a great little story! It makes everyone seem so human.
>>2 Thanks for the welcome! I'm quite excited, as it's been awhile since a fandom really snagged my attention like this one has. I wouldn't be averse to poking at this more, no, but could you maybe explain a little more about what you'd hoped to see? I can see what I can do for you. And there will definitely be others, too. I've got, like, three other ideas I'm juggling right now. >>3 Thank you so much!! I've read so much on here that made me worried that I wasn't good enough to post on here. Some of the fiction for this fandom is freakin' epic. And I tend to do a lot more "slice of life" stuff... so I wasn't sure if I'd fit in. You know? Thanks for the comment, and I'm glad you liked it!
Hey. Slice of life is some of my favorite stuff. I am endlessly fascinated at what these bloodthirsty mercs get up to when they're not killing one another. I eagerly await what other goodies you might bestow upon us, Tare.
A very sad story, but I'm glad to know the things are all in the past. I wonder how this will continue. So a bump is necessary.
You've got it, Tare! I was hoping that you would write the actual nightmare, not just tell us about it. If you haven't read "The Nucleus Incident", I would hit that up as an example of how to do nightmares right.
>>5 Thanks darlin'! I rather like writing things outside of, you know, WAR AND BATTLE AND RAAWR... not saying that one of these days once I get more comfortable I might not have at it, but not yet. And thank you for your kind words. >>6 Well, most things are in the past, yes. Heavy's and Medic's nights are haunted by past events, but Scout is more worried about what things might happen, for example. Aww, I'm sorry it made you sad, though. I had kinda hoped for ending it on an up note to recover from the sad a bit. Oops! And although originally it was going to be a one-shot... I have other ideas brewing now. >>7 Oh ho. I see. I haven't read that one, no, but I've written my own fair share of nightmare fics. Hmmm. I hadn't really planned on---hmmmmmm. But I...oh now that could be interesting...
This is beautiful, it hurts in all the right ways.
>>9 ...homg. I am kinda embarrassingly shy at the moment. You read it?? And you think it's good?? I now have the warm fuzzies to end all warm fuzzies, since I have happily spent HOURS reading all of your fics I can get my hands on, Anne. Thank you for reading, and for the wonderful comment! I hope you'll continue to read, since now I'm pretty dang sure there will be more of this. ...Dangit you guys, y'all are gonna make me tear all up, when I should be concentrating on writing.
Captcha: Nothin reconciled. Indeed, captcha. So originally my plan for the next bit was to delve into Spy's nightmare fuel. I'm a huge sucker for WWII history, and writing Medic's and Spy's nightmares is gonna be such fun. But then I was dorking around online and ended up watching Wall Street protest vids and it got me thinking of Vietnam protests....and then this happened. Enjoy! ~~Scout~~ Normally Scout’s dreams are hot spring days; the smell of grass and leather and the dust of the baseball diamond. Sometimes he dreams that he is back in Little League. Other times he dreams that he is grown up, playing the major leagues on a team with men whose faces he sees on the cards kept under his bunk. He talks to Mickey Mantle like they are old friends. Sandy Koufax and Al Kaline clap him on the shoulders and congratulate him for breaking the world record for Career Home Runs. Sometimes he dreams of that girl from his English class in junior year. Awake, he doesn’t remember her name. But in his dreams she’s Samantha. She is just as he remembers her; blonde and tanned from cheerleading, with big brown eyes and breasts that fill out a sweater damn near perfect. Dream-Samantha thinks he’s amazing, presses up against him, and convinces him to go under the bleachers with her. Not that it takes much convincing. He always wakes up just before the pleasure peaks… not fair not fair… This is neither of those dreams. It is raining. It is raining with big, hard, fat drops of cold that slam into Scout and feel more like hailstones than proper raindrops. It’s dark outside, almost like early evening in the fall, but somehow he knows it isn’t evening. It’s morning. He stands with a huge group of people, and although he cannot see their faces, he knows who they are. Aunts, Uncles, cousins, and friends of the family. His father isn’t there, and it takes Scout some time to remember that his father is dead. The pain slugs into him like a weighted fist, but he squares his shoulders and deals like a man. Wading into the crowd, he pushes through towards the front, and there are two coffins there. At the sides are uniformed members of the US Army, and the closed lids of the coffins are draped with flags. The priest from his church is there, and as Scout almost lazily looks to the side, he can see the big brick and stone structure of the cathedral on the other side of the graveyard. Suddenly it hits; he’s home. He’s at a funeral… a funeral for two soldiers. Oh God oh God. Scout tries in vain to get through the crowd to look at the new headstones crowning two freshly dug graves. Who, who? He can hear his mother crying, but he can’t see her. He struggles through people who might as well be stone gargoyles, for all they move out of his way. “Yo, let me through here!†He snaps, shoving at a black-clad man, and finally he is at the front line of the mourners. He can see the names on the headstones. “Steven…†he whispers, and to his horror he can feel the prick of tears in his eyes. The rain doesn’t even register anymore; his whole body has gone cold. “Mike. Oh no.†Michael was the oldest. He had a wife and twin little girls. And there they are, his nieces Molly and Linda clinging to their mother’s skirt with the kind of anxious shyness only four year old girls can get away with. Steven was only two years older than Scout himself. He’d gone off to New York City to go to college there, but had dropped out when a bunch of his hippie friends had decided to. He hadn’t burned his draft card quite fast enough, because as soon as he left college, the army snapped him up. Now Scout is staring at his tombstone through blurry eyes. He can still hear his mother crying, and he raises his head, trying to find her. Every time he catches a glimpse of the red flower she always wears in her hair, it disappears. “Ma?!†He starts to push through the crowd again, but hits the ground with a startled cry as rifles fire behind him. The priest has finished apparently, and the military men are firing off a salute as others, moving like automatons, move to pick up the coffins and lower them into the ground. Forgetting his mother for a moment, Scout turns to watch in horrified despair. Suddenly he hears other noises; tapping, scratching, muffled, masculine voices straining to be heard over the wails of women and salutary gunshots of the army. But Scout has good ears. Scout hears them, and knows, just fucking knows they are coming from the coffins being lowered into the ground. “Mike!?†He yells back. “Steve?!†He pushes clingy, handsy bystanders away and makes a beeline for the graves. The officers from the army try and intervene. Scout can hear his mother calling him back. The voices from the coffins are louder, desperate, as if they can hear him calling. “Dumbasses, they’re not dead! What the hell are you doing to my brothers?!†He pulls the pall-bearers away, wrestles one coffin to the ground, and rips the flag from it. “Stop it, stop it!!! You’re gonna bury them alive!†He places his hands on the lid of the coffin, of Mike’s coffin, and he can feel his brother pressing back from the other side. He can feel the thumps of his hands beating against the lid, the raking of nails over satin lining. Mike’s voice sounds hoarse from screaming. “Hold on, Mike, hold on! I’m gonna get you out, bro, hold on!†The men are on him again, trying to pull him away. He feels a familiar feminine presence, and his mother’s hand is on his cheek, then his shoulders, tugging at him. “Ma, stop! Can’t you hear?! They’re not dead!†He shrugs her off and tears open the lid of the coffin. The stench of death and blood makes him retch. The unholy scream ripping out of Mike’s throat rings in his ears as arms wrap around him. There is one hand digging into his hair, the other is nothing but a rotten, bloody stump. Half of his face is gone; half of his entire body is nothing but a mass of blood and pulpy, torn, unrecognizable tissue, bone and skin. Mike’s one remaining blue eye rolls in his head as he screams again, pulling Scout closer to rest against what is left of his chest. Scout is paralyzed with terror and shock. No matter how he tries, he cannot move as his brother’s living remains clutch him close, hissing and burbling in his ear. His heart pounds against his ribs. He tries to scream but his mouth is filled with blood and suddenly he is choking on it. It fills his nose and his lungs and he cannot breathe. “You play capture the flag and king of the mountain while the rest of us fight a real war…†the voice, disembodied but so damn familiar, belongs to the wreck of a body drowning him in its own blood. “Step on a bomb, and you come back to life,†the voice hisses. “We die! Why should you get to come back to life, when we are the ones fighting the real war?! If the rest of us have to die, then so do you!†The arms around him tighten, and Scout— --Wakes up to the shrill, harsh sound of his alarm clock with a scream of denial. For a moment, the nightmare is all he can think about, but already the details are fading. The sound of Mike’s voice, the smell of blood and death, the feel of the rain; all are fading into the lazy warmth of a summer morning. With a low moan of grief, Scout covers his face with his hands, trying to push the remaining memories aside. Mike’s not dead. Steve’s not dead. Not yet. He can only hope it stays that way.
I personally like the second 'fic better than the first. In trying to cover the entire team, you gloss over a lot of details that I would have really loved to read. Medic's flashbacks in particular need a lot more elaboration. Canon!Medic is not characterized as a man hiding deep guilt at all, so you have to work extra hard in convincing me that this is the case. Sure, just giving us "Dachau" obviously brings up some very unpleasant imagery, but not everyone who lived through that is wracked with survivor's guilt. Just telling us "Medic did Very Bad Things in the War, and now he feels Very Bad about it" isn't enough.
Now that's what I wanna read! Molto benne. Please continue. Beggin' ya, darling.
>>12 Don't worry. I'm not planning on leaving Medic alone. This wasn't originally going to go so in-depth, that's why lots of it was kinda just glossed over. It started with Scout, for some odd reason, and I have a feeling they are just gonna get worse from there. Heh. Ohhhh nonono. I do NOT plan on leaving Medic's glossed over. TRUST me. With so much horrific imagery surrounding WWII and camps like the one I chose for Medic, how could I leave THAT alone? (I chose a "work" camp over a death camp like Auschwitz or Bergen-Belsen because I did NOT want to write him as Josef Mengele. So at least as far as the guilt scale goes, it's not as unbelievable as it might be? Maybe? I'll do my best to win you over, just you wait. ) >>13 Your comments make me happy. Don't worry. It's not nearly over yet, although I might be done poking Scout. I wonder who'll be next? Hmmm....
>>10 Baw. Thanks, then. We shall have a mutual admiration party while I read this next chapter. >>11 Ho boy. This was... this was brutal, but I loved it. (And I'm really, really looking forward to the aforementioned Spy one, because I'm a giant history nerd, and WWII is one of my eras-of-interest (is it weird that I love the history surrounding wars so much when I'm such a staunch pacifist? Or maybe it actually makes sense in a way...) Anyway, if you delve into the Spy's wartime memories with the same depth as you took on the Scout's totally-different-war nightmare, then I shall be in for a treat. I almost never feel the deep need to hug Scout, but that poor boy... (Also, after reading this, I feel I should recommend 'Bury the Dead' by Irwin Shaw. It's a play, which sometimes makes things harder to find... but it's a somber reflective piece with zombie soldiers. That's a weird sentence to type...) Okay, rambled on enough. Enjoyed this, can't wait for more.
Captcha 'Scarcely victory' What eva catpcha, this rocked my knee-high socks off. Oh, god Scout poulled out my heart strings. I cold visualize everything and man, poor boy. I can't wait to read more!
>>15 Your comments honor me once again. Yes, Scout's came out rather more brutal and horrific than I meant, but I guess that has set the tone and the standard. The Vietnam war was brutal and horrific itself, and for the first time in history the American people were really, really seeing it as it was happening, not just through artful pictures. Setting Scout in front of a TV during the news would have beget that kind of imagery. So I suppose it makes sense, although it does really put the pressure on me to deliver the same with the rest of them. I plan to treat Spy's with just as much attention to detail as I did Scout's. It's taking research, because when it comes to WWII I confess that my area of interest is Germany rather than France, but dear God, I already think this is gonna be intense. Hopefully you and the other Spy-aholics won't be disappointed. I think it's the history nerd thing that makes us so interested in wars. I'm not so much pacifist as I am "mind your own business-ist", but wars are where the history is made. Because of that, writing Spy's and Medic's nightmares is making me feel all tingly, not to mention Heavy's. I get a history-boner over Soviet Russia, too. I'm trying to figure out if I want to go whole hog on this and do the whole team... Some I have ideas for, even if I hardly mentioned them in the original fic. Others....hrm. I am so glad you're enjoying, darlin'! >>16 Thank you!! It did rather come out more heart-wrenching than I originally thought it would. About halfway through I went "OH WAIT WHAT IF HE THINKS THEY ARE STILL ALIVE." And then I was writing that and I went "HAHAHA AND WHAT IF THEY AREN'T." ....I'm terrible.
I'm glad you're promising us bigger and better things, but I still feel that in the meanwhile that first chapter could either be cut altogether or rewritten. Scout's chapter suffices mightily as an opening and bait for me to want to read more of it.
>>18 Well, aside from the fact that I can't edit after I post, I do still kinda like that little ficlet. It's very general, yes, but... I dunno. Maybe think of it as more a summary? a "TL;DR" for the rest of the thread? Perhaps some kind of odd prologue? I don't really see this as a chaptered fic... more a collection of variations on a theme, I suppose. Expanding upon the snippets I mentioned in the first one. If I ever decide to clean this up and make it cohesive, though, I will keep your words in mind. I'm glad you're still wanting more.
Oh man, you guys... So I have the next bit written. I...have to decide whether or not to tone it down or not. What the fuck is WRONG with me.
>>20 Toning down is for pussies. Sock it to me.
>>20 I'm with Cat. We can take it.
Well, since the consensus seems to be that I should not censor myself... Here's the next bit, in all it's disturbing glory. I do kinda hope I don't get in trouble for putting this in fanfic and not afanfic. Umm, just to cover my bases here, BE WARNED, ALL YE WHO ENTER. THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS VERY BAD THINGS. Like, not just B-grade zombie movie gore, but some seriously... I should just let you guys read, shouldn't I. ~~Spy~~ Early sunshine caresses his face, nuzzled into the crisp cotton sheets that pool on one side of his body. It is springtime sunshine; carried on the warm sea breeze that comes through the window, bringing promises of a beautiful day in Bordeaux. Here, they are far away from the war, far away from fear. He stretches, a smile sneaking across his lips as he feels the soft, slender body of the redhead curled around him from behind. Claudette’s fingertips stroke his arm as she stirs, and he feels the soft puff of her breath on his shoulder blade as she yawns. He shifts a little, the better to turn and pull her into his arms, when the phone on the bedside table rings. She is closest, and picks it up. At her cry of alarm, he is bolt upright. She is cradling the receiver to her ear, and her face is pale, her blue eyes wide. He can do nothing but stare, body tense like a coiled spring, as she listens to the woman whose voice he can hear over the phone. It’s her mother, back home in Paris. He can barely hear her fear over the loud background noise. Air-raid sirens. Gunshots. Screams. The sounds of Germany invading, the marching of hundreds of boots against the streets he’d grown up walking. Unsatisfied with an old woman’s account of the situation, he hurries to the kitchen, and the radio there. Every station is alive with the news. France betrayed, abandoned by her allies; Italy and Germany attacking in all of their fascist glory, and everyone in the French government has fled. Nowhere is safe…. The sunny morning, the last spring he will ever spend in Bordeaux, fades into hazy, dim light. The clean yellow and white walls of Claudette’s villa become the brick walls of a basement. Maps, photos, and attack plans are taped to the walls, ready to be ripped down at a moment’s notice. The air is close, there are fifteen men and women in this very small space, the entirety of their cell called together for this meeting. He looks around, sees familiar faces, and feels a twinge of something unpleasant, some foreshadowing. A hand slides into his, and he looks down. Marie looks at him, grim and determined; black hair cut short like the newspaper boy she favors disguising herself as. He expects to be soothed by the touch of her hand, but the dread only grows stronger, almost sickening. He pulls his hand away, listens to the men and women arguing. “Too soon, I tell you! We should not even be thinking of another attack yet, especially on the power grid! Lie low, for a week or two at least. Gather information. Find another safe place to print our papers. And then we can attack again! If we attack now, they’ll be waiting!†“With all due respect, my friend, this is the perfect time! They are still reeling from the losses we inflicted upon them three days ago. If we wait any longer, they shall regroup, and what then? Would you have the work of your fellow maquis come to nothing?†He clears his throat. The room turns to look at his masked face, and he smiles a little, despite the odd feeling in the back of his mind. It is nice to have some clout with a group of people this dangerous, this important, this righteous. “Gentlemen,†he crosses his arms, looking at every masculine face in the room. “And ladies,†the smile softens a little as he looks with pride upon the women of France who have banded together and become so strong to save her. “Might I interject with an idea of my own?†He doesn’t exactly wait for their permission, no matter how politely he asks. “I agree that this is the time for a follow up attack. Now, while their numbers are low, and they are pulling more Nazi soldiers in to cover for the dogs we have slain.†Someone spits, and there is a general muttering of ill will. He is quick to capture their attention again. “But the power grid is an ambitious target, and too ambitious for the few of us, I believe. I have been in contact with comrades in other cells, as I know many of you others have as well. I propose we talk to them, sit with them, and decide whose skills and material goods would best fit with ours for an assault of that magnitude.†There is a murmur of approval, and quite a few heads nod. He is known already for having a cool temper and strategic brain. But others with hotter blood and violence in their hearts care nothing for tactics and plans. “You just said that we cannot afford to wait! What of now? We cannot just sit here!†“Is that what I said?†he snaps. “I propose that since we have stripped them of manpower, the next logical step is to deny the remaining and incoming manpower of any sense of… security. The best way to do that, my friends, is to leave them homeless in a strange city.†He laughs, but without humor. “Oh, they may occupy Paris, but they do not know her. They do not know where to go for food or emergency shelter, or the districts that are friendly to the Nazis versus those that are still actively fighting. Everything the German dogs know comes from supply trains, delivered by car to their established dormitories. Their homes away from ‘das Vaterland’.†He doesn’t even try to keep the sneer from his voice. “The bastards have stolen our home from us, let us repay the favor.†There is a moment of profound silence. Then from his side, Marie speaks. “You propose to somehow take back the houses and apartments that have been coverted for their use? I don’t see how we have the numbers to force them out.†“To hell with taking them back,†he snarls. “Blow them up. The buildings… and the Nazi swine within.†It does not go well. The French maquis fighters manage to get the innocents out of range just fine, even with the eight o’clock curfew in place. They are used to running evacuations. They can find escape routes down Paris’ alleys and side streets with their eyes closed. But they did not count on collaborators. They did not expect to get turned on in sewers or ambushed like wild animals. The French collaborators, their own countrymen, put their fingers to their mouths and whistle a sharp signal. Echoes are heard all over the quarter. Sirens blare. Engines roar to life. He tries to get away, willing to stab and kill and murder the men holding him. To be caught is to be killed, he knows this. He has lost compatriots, lost friends, to the Gestapo and the occupying Nazis. But it is no use. They hold him fast, and the laughter above his head is odd somehow… dark. Demonic sounding. He shakes his head to clear it, and a car door slams. The loud clicking of many pairs of boot heels cuts through the laughter, and suddenly his chin is seized, his face yanked up, his mask pulled off. He glares at the uniformed German before a leather gloved hand fists in his hair and yanks his head back fast, forcing him to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. There is a rapid-fire conversation going on in German spoken too fast and too fluently for him to even begin to understand. The demonic giggling starts again, and the language morphs, becoming something darker and more sinister. The hand in his hair tightens, and where before he felt only leather fingertips, now he feels a piercing pain. The SS officer lets him go, bringing the punishing hand to his own face and licking blood from wicked talons with a long, forked tongue. The man’s eyes glow red as he growls out an order, and it suddenly clicks, the language. It is the tongue of Satan himself. He knows he is not dead, but somehow, he is entering Hell. “Guten Morgen, mein Freund.†Metal links clink together as he is kicked roughly in the stomach, the customary greeting from the creature walking in circles around where he has been chained to the floor of the holding cell. He curls around himself, retching. There is nothing left in his stomach to vomit. It has been days since the Germans have felt the need to feed him anything. They tried torture at first, of course, to get him to talk. Three of his fingers are now broken and taped together. He is missing two of his back molars, and if he clenches his jaw too hard, the holes will start to bleed again. His body is covered in burns from cigars and cigarettes. Recently they have developed a new game; they will hold the end of a knife over a lighter until it is red hot, and then place it to his skin to brand him. They are in the process of finishing out their names. When pain didn’t loosen his tongue, they decided to try starvation. So far, he has resisted. He draws upon reserves of strength both physical and mental that he didn’t know he ever possessed. Certainly nothing has ever prepared him for this. He is unsure why these horned, fanged, clawed devils do not just kill him. A huge, heavy hoof comes down on his broken fingers, and it is too early in the morning and he has had too little sleep to hold back the cry of pain. His outburst is met by a low, wicked chuckle from the monster above him, and the ghoulish sniggering of the lesser demons that have accompanied him. “Besser. Schlafen Sie gut?†“Do not talk to me in that devil’s tongue of yours.†He groans. “I cannot understand it. We have had this discussion.†“Ja, ja.†A taloned hand waves dismissively. “Of course, Spy. Whatever will make you more comfortable, nicht wahr?†“I am not a Spy.†The hooves grind against the dirt on the cement floor as the thing squats down to his level. He would lash out were his hands and feet not bound so. He would spit in the devil’s ugly face if he didn’t think that was exactly what the German wanted. “Come now, Spy,†the accompanying breath smells like sulfur and decay, and he flinches back, retching again. Gales of manic laughter drown out the noise. His stomach cramps in protest, and he whimpers. The devil straightens, his hooves edging apart as he folds his arms, staring triumphantly. “We all know exactly who and what you are. There is no more need for these games.†“You know nothing.†He wheezes. “I have told you nothing!†Talons scratch idly at a horned chin. “Nein, you have kept your head well, I agree. You have proven a…†lips part over yellowed, serrated teeth as he grins, “worthy challenge, and quite the entertainment. But sadly, our time is at an end. Not all of your little friends were as tight-lipped as you. We know who you are.†A small knot of fear makes the Spy lightheaded. There is no way… none of the maquis knew his true identity. “You lie.†The German throws back his head and laughs. It sounds like thunder and nails scratching glass. “See for yourself, then!†A claw makes a swift gesture. “Bringen Sie das Madchen!†He sees auburn hair and soft, pale skin, and the fear reaches up and chokes him. How? It’s…. it is not possible! He severed all ties with her, all ties with everyone, before joining the Resistance! They should not have… He sees her terrified blue eyes when they land on him. She gasps. “Claudette…†the Spy whispers harshly, his mouth gone dry. “Aha!†Their reunion is cut short. The German walks over to her, reaching out to card his claws through her hair. She cries out in fear, flinching back against the hold of two lesser demons, who snicker and press up against her lewdly. “My compliments, Spy, your lady ist ein beauty.†He flashes his sharp-fanged grin again. “What was your name, Fraulein? Claudette, was it?†She is terrified, and it kills his heart to see her so. She should have been safe! How could they have found her, linked her to him? She doesn’t answer the devil, too frightened to do anything but gape at him. Irritated, he lunges at her, snapping his jaws and growling. With a choked off scream, she faints from fright. “Claudette!†Spy’s chains rattle as he throws himself against them. The devil looks bored. “What a disappointment. Ah well.†He looks at the woman as if she were a bug. “No use putting something that pretty to waste.†He flicks his claws, and the others are immediately upon her, clawing at her clothing, her hair, her skin. Spy howls in denial, pulling against his chains with all of his strength. Claudette is stripped in front of his eyes, and one after the other, the demon-spawn rape the girl he used to love. She wakes up at one point, the pain enough to rouse her from her stupor. After that, he wishes more than anything that he could simply cover his ears to drown out the sound of her screams. Marie is next, dragged in hissing and spitting like an angry cat. From the way her clothes are torn half away and from the dirt that streaks her face and body, Spy can tell this treatment is nothing new to her. She is dragged closer to the spot he is chained to, and the German waves for his underlings to have their way with her as well. She does not scream; she was always too tough for that. But the little grunts of pain she makes as they rut over her are nearly as bad. By the time they finish, Spy feels weak. Beaten. Finished. The Nazi demons have won. Despair is slowly creeping up his spine. “Mein Freund, did you think we were done?†The laughing face of the devil is back. “Did you think that was all the fun we had planned for today?†“There are no others, you bastard!†Spy has lost his composure by now, his face damp from tears of grief and sweat. “Unless you plan to dig up the corpse of my mother and rape her, too!†“Nein, I think what I have planned will be sufficient.†At his wave, the demons bring in a woman. He has never seen her before. But his heart pounds wildly in his chest, and his brain is screaming in denial. She’s quite beautiful, petite, slender, wearing a scandalously short dress and high heels, both in a robin’s egg blue. Her sleek, shiny hair is cut in a dark brown bob that frames her face, and crowned with a blue headband that matches her dress. She looks to him, surprised, but the way her gaze lingers is familiar. She calls him a name he has never worn, but that some part of his brain responds to eagerly. Without knowing her name, he finds it choking past his lips. “No… Please, no. I will… I will do anything. I will tell you… anything.†He slumps over, kneeling on the cement floor, and bows his head. The fear he feels is paralyzing. “You have won, German… Name your price, only let her go, please.†“Name mein price?†There is a soft gasp. Spy looks up sharply. The devil has taken her face in his hand, and that long forked tongue flicks out to stroke across her lips. She recoils, but the demons hold her tight. “It is too late for that, Spy. Playtime is over!†His claws draw blood from her soft skin as he pulls her flush to his body. She fights him. He laughs, shoving her against the wall and ripping her dress down the back. She cries out a name again; the name that is not Spy’s but yet IS, and as the devil shoves into her body, Spy screams— --"NON!!! Non pas elle, Diable!!!" Spy chokes on his words, not as slow to wake as he once used to be. He listens for the sounds of anyone in the hall, breathing hard through his nose and trying to calm the frantic hammering of his heart. When it becomes clear that his cry has drawn no attention, he sits up, reaching with shaking hands for a cigarette and his lighter. As he takes a deep, deep drag of the nicotine, he rests his forehead in his hand. “Merde…†he whispers, the smoke slipping out between his lips. Closing his eyes, Spy does his best to purge the nightmare from his mind. It will not go. Too much of it is too close to the truth, and the memories of that time do not fade. The Gestapo officer who tortured him for information was not a devil, he knows this… he was just a madman. But that does not make the torture any less real. Slowly, Spy’s tongue probes the back of his mouth, finds the two holes where his molars used to be. Although the sites have long since healed, he can still feel the phantom pain; can still taste the sickly copper tang of his own blood. His hands are still shaking. The nicotine is not helping. Behind his eyelids he sees red hair and blue eyes. He remembers their bed, crisp sheets in springtime. And he can still see her, spread open and pinned beneath four Nazi soldiers. No matter how many years pass, no matter how hard he tries to forget, the sound of her screams will haunt him always.
A) I absolutely love exploring nightmares. B) I absolutely love focus on the French resistance during WWII C) Tears, in my eyes, right now. I'm actually glad you didn't tone it down. It was brutal, but that's why it's so powerful.
>>24 Oh good, that's a relief. I did more research on the French side of WWII for this chapter than I think I ever did in school. I wanted to make sure I did this fuckin' right. If you liked it, then I think I can say that I managed to pull it off. Yay! Now I have to decide who to do next. After watching lots of Poker Night, I have realized that Heavy mentions having bad dreams and nightmares quite a damn lot. This is interesting....
>>25 Dreams of dead Doktors everywhere! He also mentions thinking the Respawn is really just a nightmare, right? It's an interesting way to have the characters react to their deaths again and again. I thought that part was strikingly deep and I felt bad and loved it at the same time. His story about his youth and the sparrow was also surprisingly sad.
I'm stunned right now. Which is a good thing. I wish I could give more concrete praise. The third rape really threw me for a loop. Not sure what I'd offer for the Heavy. I'm working on writing with him right now for "Double Feature", and I keep entertaining the thought of him living in a Anatevka-ian residential setting that gets completely wiped out, along with a sweetheart of his. (Named Ludmila, by the way.) If that helps you, take it and run. You've got a great head start.
>>26 Oh the sparrow story was sad! And yes, dreams of dead Doktors everywhere. I'm not sure if Heavy will be next for this treatment or not... depends what I dream up at work today. I'm also not sure if I'll stick to what I originally had planned for him or not... hmm. >>27 When you say "threw me for a loop", I hope that doesn't mean "threw me right out of the story". That part was obviously supposed to be the nastiest twist of the knife. Seeing Scout's Ma there, his dream-self having no idea who she is, but the Dreamer Himself knowing EXACTLY who, and KNOWING what's going to happen to her... Like I said, WTF is wrong with me. I hope you liked it, and that it's living up to your expectations.
I'm interested in seeing how this unfolds. While you're covering some gruesome topics, I think you're doing it with a decent amount of sensitivity, (rather than being lurid and sensational, I mean) and the fact that it involves the characters' nightmares and recollections also helps to soften what might otherwise be excessive and distasteful.
>>29 yay yang!! Thank you for reading again! I imagine the new bits were quite the surprise... Glad you find them handled well. I am thinking it is time for a humor break....
Captcha = psyche flay ....SHHHHHH CAPTCHA. So here's more, you guys. Y'all keep on makin' me wanna write for you, so that's good. I need the motivation, or else I'll sit and play Warcraft all day on my days off. That being said, this isn't another nightmare; I decided I needed a break to really think about what I wanted to do next, rather than just rushing it. So this is just a little interlude between two characters who have already been covered, and one who won't. Sorry... but there are some situations that I just...decided I didn't want to get into. Anyhow, FIC! I hope y'all continue to enjoy, and all my love to those who read. ~~Interlude~~ When Scout makes it down to the mess hall, he is surprised to find it already occupied. Spy is there, one hand curled weakly around the remnants of a cup of coffee and the other covering his face; thumb and middle fingers rubbing gently at his closed eyes like he has a headache. Scout has just decided not to say anything when another person comes out of the kitchen with coffee. “Pyro? Man, you’re up early. What’s the occasion?†If it’s possible for a gas mask to look sheepish and ashamed, Pyro does so. Maybe it’s something about the tilt of his head, or the slump of his shoulders. “Nhhmrr.†He sits at the table, at the opposite end from Spy, and cradles the steaming mug in his gloved hands. Scout hesitates for a moment. He’d only come down here to get a glass of juice before taking his morning run. He hadn’t expected to see anyone else up, much less get involved in conversation. Pyro sighs heavily, and that makes the decision for him. “Nightmare, huh?†He sits down by the firebug, who nods. “Yeah, those suck.†“Yrr hff ‘m trr?†The tone is almost hopeful, and Scout can’t help but laugh and thump Pyro on the back. “Yeah, me too. Hey, just ‘cause I’m awesome don’t mean I don't got worries, you know.†He grins, and it’s only half an act. “It’s weird you had one last night, man. So did I.†There is a slightly awkward silence. Then Pyro offers Scout his untouched coffee. Scout smiles and pushes it back to him. “Nah, don’t need that shit. I didn’t wake up until my alarm went off. Slept bad, but slept enough, yanno?†Pyro nods, staring down at the coffee. After a moment, he pushes his mask up just enough to take a sip. Scout politely turns his head away, looking at a spot on the wall. When they’d first started working together, those brief glimpses of the person under the mask would make his sense of curiosity go haywire, and he’d stare and stare, and wait for Pyro to lift his hood again. But as he never saw any more than that brief glimpse of jaw and lip, eventually curiosity turned to boredom, and then to simple acceptance. “Drr yrr wnn’ trrk?†Scout looks back over to see Pyro watching him, mask firmly back in place. “Talk? About… oh, about the nightmare?†Scout laughs, slightly nervous. “Not really, man. It was kinda, um,†he thinks for a moment, staring down at the table. “It was kinda intense. Not sure I want to bring it all up again.†A snort comes from the far end of the table. Scout and Pyro turn to look, but aside from the noise, Spy has not moved. “Hey, Spook, you okay down there?†Scout says, deliberately louder than necessary. If the Frenchman has a headache, then all the better to annoy him with. The only answer is pointed silence. Pyro turns and looks at Scout, who shrugs. “What about you?†Scout surprises himself by asking in return. “Do you need to…well, you could talk. I don’t know how well it would get across, but…" he cuts off lamely. Pyro chuckles, shaking his head, and he reaches over and pats Scout’s arm before cupping his hands around his coffee mug again. Scout takes it as the gesture of thanks it was meant to be. Probably. They sit in companionable silence for a moment before Scout gets up to get his juice. Leaning in the kitchen doorway to drink it, he studies the quiet, huddled man at the end of the table. Spy’s shoulders are hunched; he looks utterly miserable. Despite the fact that he’s got no lost love for the guy, Scout doesn’t actively hate him either. Kinda admires him, in a way. It’s well known by now that he’s sleeping with the BLU Scout’s mother, and he really hates that little poser prick. He grabs the coffeepot and walks down the table to Spy. The Frenchman’s cup is nearly empty. Carefully, Scout pours him a new cup. He doesn’t ask if he should get cream or sugar or any of that crap, because he doesn’t care quite that much. “You look like you slept like shit, man. Bad dreams?†“Oui…†the answer is a heartfelt groan, and that surprises Scout. “Really? Shit. You, me, and Pyro all on the same night?†He tops off Pyro’s coffee, since he’s there, and then returns the pot to the machine. On his way back out to the table, he grabs the sugar and creamer. “That’s really fuckin’ weird. Think it’s a coincidence?†The cream and sugar are set down by Spy’s elbow. After a moment of hesitation, Spy uncurls and fixes his coffee the way he likes. “I do not see why it wouldn’t be.†Pyro says nothing, taking another sip of black coffee. “Well, maybe something happened!†Now that the idea is in Scout’s head, it won’t leave. “Respawn fucked with our heads… or… maybe BLU spiked our drinking water! Or maybe,†he starts to pace, doing laps around the table. “Maybe Medic is doing one of his freaky experiments again! What if—“ “Scout.†Spy’s voice is loud in the room, and his name is almost a growl. “Please shut up. And do not mention the docteur right now, s’il vous plait.†“Ohhhhhh.†Scout winces theatrically. “You had another one of those ‘gonna kill the doc the moment I see him’ dreams again?†He downs the rest of his juice and goes back into the kitchen to rinse out the cup. “I am so totally outta here, then. No offense, but I don’t wanna hear Heavy get all overprotective and growly and shit this early in the morning.†He stops on the way out of the door, turning back to look again. “Still, nightmares suck, and ones that make you wanna kill your own teammates gotta suck a LOT, so… Sorry, man.†He doesn’t stick around for Spy’s response, if there is one. The sun is up now, taking the night’s chill from the air. Scout takes a deep breath, pushing all thoughts of zombie brothers from his mind, and takes off at a run.
Oh, Scout... I really enjoyed this, quiet little moment between a few of the guys. I like how it was illustrative of the relationship between the Scout and the Pyro, and the Pyro's character (and I can't wait to see what he has nightmares about...), as well as fleshing out the Scout, his attitude, how much younger he is than some of the others, and the sort of naivete/lack of understanding that comes therewith, his awkward moment of outreach to the Spy, whose inner turmoil we've already had insight into.
Before it was brought up, I did wonder if BLU was somehow behind the nightmares, expecting RED to lose to the skeletons in their closets, lose sleep and morale and thus having poorer performance while fighting. But BLU hasn't counted on RED talking to each other about their problems. Hmm.
This is fantastic. >>1 In Heavy and Medic's chapter I was really struck by "as he spoke in halting Russian that Medic had no hope of understanding". The fact that Heavy is just talking without Medic understanding evoked very strongly the feeling where you just have to let it out, regardless of whether anyone is listening or understanding. A very powerful line! I liked the concluding ray of hope as well. >>11 My favourite thing about Scout's chapter was how the setting played a role in establishing the mood. You gave the funeral a good two paragraphs of description even before anything happened, and I loved every sentence of them. >>23 What to say about this except how stunned I was... When I got to the part where ScoutMa appeared I stared at her textual introduction for a good thirty seconds before realizing who she was, and when I did realize I more or less clapped my hands to my mouth in shock. Not only are Spy's nightmares content with taunting him with memories of the past, they have to threaten the future as well. >>31 D'aww. I was worried Spy was going to stay slumped at his end of the table, but of course you had Scout talk to him. Hooray for team. I was also amused by Scout admiring Spy for sleeping with BLU ScoutMa. Out of curiosity, what kind of thing was in Pyro's nightmare that was too horrible to write a chapter for? In general I'm just amazed by how well you're writing these powerfully emotional scenes without going over the top, and I look forward to reading more.
Very nice break. Looking forward to a continuation.
>>32 You honor me with commenting again!! Thank you!! I find it a little odd that despite Scout not being, like, my most favorite of the guys, I can get into his head possibly the easiest. Weird. Pyro...heehee. Writing Pyro, I kept on having to hold a hand over my mouth and say what I wanted to write, seeing how it came out sounding. Does anyone else do this?? Or am I just lame? lol As far as Pyro's nightmares go, at the moment I am unsure whether I'm gonna write his or not. The only really GOOD idea I had was something that was a trigger even for ME... so I'm not sure what's gonna happen there yet. But I'm glad you liked this little break, and everyone's interactions! >>33 Before Scout brought it up, I hadn't planned on having BLU or even the Administrator have anything to do with this. But then Scout brought it up. Chekhov's Gun and all that... >>34 I am so glad you like it!! And thank you for the wonderful comment and marvelous praise! I could eat that for breakfast every day and die hungry, but happy. The first bit...heehee, that was totally not the only thing Heavy or Medic are going to be getting, by the way, that was just the original plot bunny. But I am glad you liked that line. The mental image that went along with it made me sad, but I thought it was such a poignant bit that, well yeah. Glad you liked the descriptiveness in Scout's nightmare, I had a very vivid scene in my head for that one. Hell, for all of these, Spy's too. The settings have just...slapped me in the face. The basement where his Resistance cell held their meeting, I can see it plain as day. Speaking of Spy's nightmare...yeah. That one is, I think, gonna be the hard one to top. That's part of the reason I'm not rushing the next one, even though I'm fairly certain who I'm covering next. Trust me, when I got to that part, it just kind of *happened*, and I clapped my own hand over my mouth in shock, too. Spy's subconscious is a nasty, effed up place. HOORAY FOR TEAM! And I figured that, out of pretty much anyone, RED Scout would get the most laughs out of RED Spy sleeping with the mother of his BLU counterpart. I thought it was a nice change from "all Scouts hate Spies because Spies sleep with ScoutMas". Pfft. As far as Pyro's nightmares go... I had a very clear idea that I might....*might* yet write. But it's very close to too much even for me, and I'm not sure I could bring myself to write it. I'll say two things; I see Pyro, like many do, as a true Pyromaniac, and not just someone who is good at using a flamethrower. Secondly, do you know Just. How. Effed. Up. Mental hospitals were in the 50s and 60s? Ugh...horrible stuff. True nightmare fuel. Again, thank you for the praise, and I will continue to try my hardest and do my best to handle these kinds of things. >>35 DF! You're still reading! YAY I haven't scared/bored you away yet! I'm glad you're still liking it.
SHAMELESS SELF-BUMP...okay, not really totally. UPDATE BUMP is more like it. Sorry for bumping this, but I did want to let anyone who is following it know what's up. Tare has had a monster, monster, hellacious bit of writer's block, which has spread to all her stories, not just this one. I started on the next bit, didn't like it, redid it, didn't like it but was determined to go with it, and now I think I may have gotten a better idea (FINALLY) so I'll have to start it again. Yeeesh. Sorry, guys...but after Spy's nightmare I can't very well post some crap I just schlepped out, you know? I got standards I gotta maintain and all that. That being said, I'll give you two li'l teasers: The next nightmare will be Engineer's (who I have never written and that is probably one thing causing me the trouble) and will probably involve some totally impractical problems. And to make up for how long this is taking, I am planning on actually writing Pyro's nightmare, too, even though I said I wasn't. Please bear with me and my writer's block! I hope to actually post some real story soon! Love you guys!
If you feel you need some help with Engie or you just want someone to bounce ideas off of, feel free to contact me at the email provided (click my name). I'm available from aprox 5pm til late Pacific time.